Page 73 of Pierced

“Why what?” I ask once her eyes are in front of mine.

“Why me?”

I have to cock my head because my neck kind of gives way. I was not expecting that to be her response. The Myrtle I know has never questioned herself. Never once. At least not as far as I know. But hell. What do I know anyway?

“Why you?” She nods. I blow out a breath. “Well, I mean, look. I think, after Andrew, you represent my most enduring adult relationship. Also, you’re the most reliable and trustworthy person I’ve ever met.”

She starts to make a point. I anticipate it even before the words are out of her mouth.

“I know! I know! I accused you of something that belies what I just said. Listen. Listen to me.” I take her by the shoulders. “Are you listening to me?”

She nods. “Do you think holding my shoulders will make me listen harder?”

“No.”

“It won’t. ”

“I know.”

“I listen with my ears, not my shoulders, so—”

“Will you shut the fuck up and stop deflecting for a second?”

She pulls her chin into her chest.

I start again. “Listen to me. I—”

“You don’t have to yell.”

“Jesus Christ!” I let go of her and turn around in a circle for no reason. “I fucked up! OK? I fucked up. I was in a very, very bad place. The magazine was hemorrhaging money and I was kind of scapegoating and I might have gone a little crazy and—”

“Might?”

“Whatever. Listen, honestly, I’ve apologized in every way I know how. I feel like I’ve kind of gone well beyond what most would consider the normal scope of a reasonable apology. And I’ve, I think, really illustrated my commitment to make things right between us. Myrtle Astrid Rothschild… you are one of the best people I know, you are one of the finest people I’ve ever met, you are one of my favorite humans of any persuasion, and at this point, I don’t know what more I could do to show you that other than chop my own dick off. Which I really, really don’t want to do. But I will if... No. Sorry. That’s a lie. I won’t chop my dick off. That’s where I draw the line. So, if you need that... Fuck you. But my point is, I’m sorry. And you look amazing tonight. And I feel like I did earn a reward. And whether you believe it or not, I think you deserve one too, and also whether you believe it or not, I feel like what I want to do to you right now could serve as one, and even though I’m not entirely sure what I’m saying makes sense because this whole thing has me super fucked up, I think you get the point I’m making because I kind of feel like you also understand me better than anyone. So…”

Had I known I was going to be making word salad, I would’ve brought dressing.

Jesus. That was… I have no idea what she’ll make of that, so I decide to just shut up and wait to find out.

Her highly bodiced bosom is heaving. She swallows. Her eyes are rimmed with wet. She tightens her jaw. Her chin shakes.

I watch. My eyes dart to the photos on the walls. A strange imagining of her over the course of her life whizzes through my mind. I don’t know if it’s accurate, but it’s vivid. “What?” I ask, with the caution one would use when attempting to tame a wild lion.

“You…” She stops herself. Swallows again.

“Yeah…?”

“You...”

“Me... What? Her head shakes back and forth slowly. “You… you actually remembered my middle name?”

Huh. That was not where I thought that was going. “Uh. Yeah. I guess I did.”

And before I can say more, she’s on top of me.

She jumps right into my arms and I grab her under her ass to hold her there. I keep her lifted with one arm and with the other, I grab the nest of black hair she has pinned to the top of her head. I force her mouth onto mine and my tongue gallops inside.

She allows me to lick her up. Our lips wrestle and our tongues joust. I open one eye long enough to spy the Persian rug in the adjoining room, next to the entry hall, and begin walking us in that direction. Her hands paw along my top coat. Paw seems like the appropriate word.